


Sing, O Muse

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sing, O muse, of the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing, O Muse

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for knowmefirst during [Summer Holmestice 2014](http://holmestice.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Please take note of the tags as this fic may be triggering!

John put the gun to Poole's forehead and let his lips quirk up a little bit. He was gratified to see Poole's florid skin pale under the press of the gun's muzzle. "Anything else?"

"It _wasn't_ me, for god's _sake_ , it _wasn't me!_ "

John shrugged, a quick jerk of his shoulders. He followed with a roll of his head upon his shoulders, enjoyed the cracks and snaps of tension releasing itself. The moment over, he looked back down at Poole, who clearly believed his days were over. 

Well, he wasn't wrong. 

John said, "Alright then," and squeezed the trigger.

 

**3 Hours Earlier:**

 

John saw the black car idling in front of 221b and sighed. Phenomenally bad timing. Which must mean it was perfect, from Mycroft's point of view. John shifted the Tesco bag from one hand to another, grateful that at least there was a fresh box of tea, milk, and McVittie's Chocolate Digestives to appease the Lord and Master after Mycroft's visit.

Pounding up the stairs, he expected to hear loud voices, and became wary when he did not. A quick glance around proved the cause; no Mycroft, no Sherlock. Anthea, however, stood in the kitchen, frowning at the open refrigerator. "Don't touch anything on the lower two shelves," John said, quickly setting his grocery bag on the counter. "Not even joking."

She twitched her eyebrows, but moved away to lean against the door frame instead.

"So," said John, tearing the plastic off of the box of tea. "What does himself want."

"I need your help."

"Sherlock's not - "

"No," she said, straightening abruptly. " _I_ need _your_ help, Dr. Watson."

"A personal matter?"

She nodded at the counter. "I'll take tea if you're making it."

He managed not to roll his eyes as he did as she requested. He'd wanted tea anyway, no reason not to make enough for two. 

They didn't speak while waiting for the kettle to boil, nor when John poured the water, gathered milk and lemon, swiftly moving the sugar bowl out of the way when Anthea went to lift some out with the spoon. "Ah, no, no," he grabbed the purple Cadbury's tin they used for actual sugar and slid it in front of her. "Use this one instead."

John decided he had had enough, and folded his arm. "Right then, out with it."

She blew on her tea and sipped it, added more lemon. "This must stay between the two of us." 

Oh, he didn't like the sound of that at all, but before he had a chance to disagree, she continued.

"As you said, this is a personal matter, and I'd rather neither Mr. Holmes nor Sherlock should know."

"Mm," John shook his head. "You do know they'll both find out."

"But not from you."

Taken aback, he snorted a laugh. "And why not?"

"Because you're coming with me right now," Anthea took another sip of tea, then placed the cup on the table. She stood. "You won't need your weapon."

There was movement at the corner of his eye and when he looked - "Oh, you have got to be joking. Seriously? You're kidnapping me again?"

"Merely ensuring your cooperation, Dr. Watson."

The heavies at the door - and John was both annoyed and amused to see that there were three of them, because for god's sake, he wasn't that dangerous - were about what one would expect at the door of a popular nightclub. 

Sure.

Fine.

Whatever.

Once in the car, John didn't bother to ask where they were headed. He was, however, surprised to see Anthea's Blackberry checked, then tucked away into her purse. He noted her heels, which today were edged with an extremely subtle, black on black Greek Key design in the fabric. "So what's so important it needs to be kept from Mycroft and Sherlock, but not from me?"

The corners of her mouth curled up a bit. "When I was in University, I had horrible housemates. One Sunday morning, while scanning the classifieds for flats to let, I came across an ad. It promised adventure and the chance to serve Queen and Country," she looked at him, her gaze sharp. 

Yes, he was familiar. He'd done much the same, though perhaps not quite as whimsically, despite what Harry still thought. "Just like David Shaler."

She gave him an 'are you fucking kidding me' look. "Yet here I am."

"Not without enemies," said John, pulling his wits together. 

"Everyone has enemies," she answered. "I…I once held another position within the government before I began to work for Mr. Holmes."

John nodded once, twice, grimaced at the lack of information. "Your boss wasn't pleased to see you go."

"He needs a reminder that I am no longer his…secretary."

"And you need me for that because…?"

For the first time the calculated expression of condescension fell from her face. "I don't want _him_ to know."

"Mycroft?," he said, noting her emphasis. "He'd help you in a minute if you asked," even as he said the words he realized that that was the point. It wasn't that she couldn't ask, she didn't want to. For whatever reason, she didn't want him to know she was being courted for a different position. But why not? "Not in the mood for salary renegotiation?"

The mask slipped back into place for a second before falling away again. "Hardly, Dr. Watson. I simply can't afford to have anyone question my authority," She tilted her head, gave him that ever-so-slight smile again. "As a man below the mean height for British males, surely you understand my position?"

 _And don't call me Shirley!_ , was his first thought before he understood the implications of her words. No, he didn't like that at all. His height was no longer the sore spot it had been during his youth, before he discovered how to use it to his advantage, but that didn't mean he liked being reminded of it.

So yes, he understood her point - she could not be seen as having a weakness, not from anyone who knew who she worked for. John suspected that Mycroft was precisely the one person in the world she could leave her guard down around, well, in a manner of speaking. It wouldn't be a comfortable experience by any means - "Does he already know? Mycroft?"

"He's concerned with other problems at the moment."

Which didn't really answer John's question to his satisfaction. He noted unfamiliar streets passing by, turned his attention to the woman sitting across the seat from him. "Exactly what is it you want me to do?"

"I have a meeting with my counterpart at The Breakers. I want you to observe."

"You…want _me_ to be your heavy?" John asked in disbelief. That seemed ridiculous, given in whose company he'd left 221B.

She shrugged. "As you see fit."

By the time they pulled up to The Breakers, which turned out to be a closed nightclub in a detached granite building in the City. Not quite where John had thought they'd end up. He followed Anthea inside, noted the glances directed their way by the few staff as Security led them through the marbled foyer and into the depths of the building. The club was some sort of wine bar, the kind of place Maggie's Young Professionals would have inhabited back in the day. John was not impressed by the wealth of gold leaf and black fitments he couldn't imagine anyone would want to sit on, never mind lounge.

They passed through the bar and were led through a labyrinth of hallways with closed doors that made John increasingly _hinky_ , as the Americans used to say. Finally Security stopped before a set of double doors, the leader touching the ill-hidden electronic in his ear before reaching for the handle. John found the show ridiculous, a Hollywood play given that it was just he and Anthea. 

Beyond the doors was a single room of medium size. The walls were dark maroon, the trim an unpleasantly contrasting bright white, the three seater dark camel sofa modern in design, as was the cognac leather and chrome desk, and the man seated behind it. He was sleek, blond, and when he stood, whippet-slim. John was reminded of Moriarty, except that Moriarty was a less smarmy son-of-a-bitch. Nice suit, too bad about the cologne, a musky affair with a bitter note that turned John's stomach a bit.

A white man in a pale blue summer suit sitting in one of the two chairs matching the desk jumped to his feet. "Anthea," he said, holding out his hand. "How good of you to come."

"Mr. Arkwright," she answered primly, folding her arms.

The blond man came around the desk, steering towards John as if it were no concern of his that Anthea completely ignored him. "I'm Davis Poole. And you are?"

John shook hands, completely unsurprised by the other man's crushing grip. Two could play at that game, and John wasn't particularly interested. Not at this stage, at least. "John Watson."

"Well!" said Poole, pressing Anthea forward with one hand against the small of her back. "Please, sit. Davis, bring tea. Shall we begin?"

Arkwright pursed his lips, eyes darting from Poole to Anthea to John and back to Poole as if he feared a knife in the back. "Of course," he said, heading swiftly towards the hallway.

Anthea settled in her chair, leaving Arkwright's chair for John. "Mr. Poole, this conversation ends here."

"Anthea, we've hardly begun."

"I'm not about to change employers, Mr. Poole. I'm content where I am."

Poole sat back in chair, smiled. "Of course you are. Change is in the air, can't you feel it?"

Anthea held out a memory stick. Where she had gotten it from, John didn't know.

"The information you require."

Poole shook his head. "You know that's not what I want."

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you," she answered smoothly, tucking it back into her purse. 

"Leave Holmes," Poole said intently, placing his elbows on the desk and leaning forward. "Come back to me. You can take Arkwright's place."

"Sorry, I don't sleep with my superiors."

Her retort, quick and angry, had John wincing internally. Not the kind of man to whom you willingly showed your hand.

Poole merely quirked his lips, the smile not reaching remotely anywhere close to his eyes. "Mr. Watson, if you wouldn't mind leaving us for a few minutes."

"I do," said John. He motioned towards Poole. "Mind."

"It'll only be for a few minutes, a matter of some delicacy."

John had met Poole's type before. On the surface they were polite, but unlike Moriarty, whose crazy came to the fore in front of those who mattered, men like Poole only let their true nature out when it was time to terrorize someone. "I assure you I have the highest sense of discretion."

"Nonetheless, I must insist. Carlos! Mir!"

Anthea's eyes widened as she looked behind John, and yes, there was the Security that had brought them there, one on either side of John, big hands clamped to his shoulders. He was brought to his feet by their iron grip, and walked out of the room, passing a wide-eyed Arkwright holding a tea tray and its accoutrements. The time to struggle hadn't yet arrived, and he made himself relax as he was brought to the room immediately next to Poole's office, the door closing behind him quite firmly.

He jiggled the handle; locked. The rest of the room, which was bigger than a closet but too small to be a proper office, provided nothing of use as there was nothing inside it, not even a waste paper bin. No windows, outlets all switched to the off position and plugged for safety, not even a chair for him to sit on. The sole source of light came from a single florescent tube overhead set into the ceiling. Even if he could somehow reach it, he would have to unscrew the plastic covering. Nothing to do but wait.

He folded his arms and leaned against the nearest wall. Just as he was thinking that his whole morning was being wasted (fuck, had he actually put the groceries away?), there was a thud against his back. He turned his head, held his breath - what? Squinting in concentration, he turned around to face the wall. Both hands on the wall, now, turning so his good ear could hear as much as possible - yes, there. He couldn't make out the words, but there was the low vibration of voices, Poole's for sure, and then one much higher pitched - Anthea's. Another thud, harder this time, and a sharp cry that abruptly broke off.

John hit the wall back. "Anthea! _ANTHEA!_ "

For a few minutes he paced around the room, looking at everything over and over again. No, there was nothing he could use, not a goddamned thing. 

"Anthea!" John thumped the wall a few more times, stopped, listened. Now there was no sound at all. "Shit."

He took the few steps to the door, pounded on it heavily with his fist. "Hey! I need to speak to Poole! C'mon, let me out! I want to talk to Poole, I have information!"

No one answered and he was left to pace the room some more. Unfortunately the door opened inward, so he couldn't even try and kick his way out like they did in the movies. Inner doors were flimsier in Afghanistan, they could be kicked in or out with a well-placed bootheel. Knowledge that did fuck-all for him now, though.

More time passed. 

John was reduced to shaking his arms out and bouncing on his toes to keep the anxiety down. He took deep breaths because goddamnit this was worse than being in the middle of a firefight, at least then he had had something to do. He continued taking deep breaths until he was calm enough to stand with one ear against the wall between Poole's office and John's holding cell-cum-closet. After a minute in which all he could hear was the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins, he put his back against the wall again and slid to the floor, sitting on his heels. In the Army he'd learned how to wait, why this was different he just hoped, he wanted, he couldn't - no.

All in all, he figured a good 45 minutes must have passed, more or less, which was why he was slow and stiff standing up from his position on the floor when he heard the door being unlocked. 

The tall bloke - Carlos - who had led them into the recesses of The Breakers came into the room. He no longer wore his jacket, the better to show off his shoulder holster, John assumed. The bloke was massive, though, his neck practically the width of John's waist, his shirt - which had to be made for him, no chance you could buy that off the rack at Primark - pulled tight against his shoulders and upper arms. If that weren't enough, he skin was rather an oddly deep shade of red. John tutted and shook his head. "Steroid's are bad for you, mate."

"Shut the fuck up," growled the other man, literally looking down at John with the clear desire to kick the shit out of him. "Mr. Poole is waiting for you."

Right. John carefully sidled around him and into the hallway, where the Asian heavy waited, hands clasped together. He dead-eyed John, waiting to see if John was going to try anything before reaching to the side and opening the door to Poole's office. John took a quick breath, let it out slowly as the door swung open.

Poole was behind his desk, shuffling papers. He looked up, flicked his hand at John. "You've certainly made your presence known, Mr. Watson. If I were a different kind of man I'd've shut you up long before now."

John stepped forward, quickly glancing around. The room looked exactly the same, yet there was a difference. Something in the air, perhaps, a crackling expenditure of energy that John was more than familiar with. "Where's Anthea?"

Poole smirked, nodded towards the corner behind John. He turned - 

_oh jesus_. 

Anthea was crumpled on the floor. She was partially hidden by a ficus in a fake Majolica blue and green cachepot. Her clothing was disheveled, though covering the essentials and her hair was in wild disarray. Her face was blocked by the cachepot, and even if it hadn't been, John wouldn't have been able to see her face behind her hands and hair. He noted the sparkly violet polish on her toes where they peeped through her laddered pantyhose. 

"Ultimately she agreed with me," said Poole. He came around the desk holding out a pure white envelope upon which was written in beautiful cursive, **_Mr. Mycroft Holmes_**. He stopped next to John and peered at Anthea with a little frown. "I confess I thought she would cave much sooner than she did. Much to admire, wouldn't you say?"

John hadn't been aware of Carlos standing at his side until the man caught his arm as he pulled back to punch the lights out of Poole. Caught off balance, he swung wildly at Carlos instead, catching him solidly on the jaw. He was momentarily pleased at the crack of bone as they fell heavily against the desk, then the struggle to stay upright and alive began in earnest.

The melee was brief and confused, but John somehow managed to get hold of Carlos' gun. Civilians, eh. What the hell was Poole doing with such berks? Catching his breath, he backed up to where he thought Anthea might still be. A quick check out of the corner of his eye - yes, still on the floor, but peeking through her fingers. Holding Poole and Mir at bay, he watched Poole move a little behind Mir. "Uh uh," he said, shaking his head. "No, you don't get to leave here. You, Mir, that's your name, yeah? Move over there where I can see you. Yeah, get your phone out, just like that. Take your jacket off, first."

He watched Mir carefully, mindful of any movement from Carlos, who was still stretched out on the floor. No, Carlos was going to be out for a while. If he were very lucky, he might even wake up. An unexpected blow, striking his head against the corner of the desk like that. Hey, he was still breathing. Mir, though, he was a problem. He looked the part of Security in his ill-fitting black suit and solemn expression (could just be terror), but he was either very new at it or was just for show, because he hadn't helped Carlos at all. "What's your job, then?" asked John, curious.

"Me? Oh, um, I work in the kitchen," answered Mir, trying to smile and failing miserably.

Unbelievable. "Right. Dial this number, don't say anything, just dial, wait a minute, then hang up," John rattled off Mycroft's number from memory, aware of Anthea behind him, of how she would normally be the one answering his call.

John was almost relieved when Poole made a break for it. Poole stepped behind Mir, shoving him towards John as he went for the open door. Unfortunately for him, he tripped over Mir's leg as Mir fell. John darted forward, hauling Mir out of the way with one hand on his upper arm, ignoring the man's pained yelp. Probable dislocation or break, his medical brain supplied while the rest of his body went for Poole, propelling him hard against the wall. He knelt on Poole's wrist, twisted the other wrist back until Poole was whimpering. 

"We can work this out - " cried Poole, perspiration beading on his forehead. "I've got money! I can make you a millionaire! You could buy your own island and fill it with beautiful women!"

John set the gun against Poole's cheek. "Try again."

"It was Arkwright! Anthea can tell you, I'm not that kind of man!"

"Wrong answer."

"She gave it to him! Holmes! She took information from me - from _me!_ \- and gave it to that bastard! Then she had the front to go work for that supercilious fucker? It couldn't be allowed, Mr. Watson. I've waited four years to get her back from that fat shit, to convince her to come back to me - you saw what she did! No one treats me like that and gets away with it, no one."

John shook his head in disgust, wiping Poole's unintentional spray of saliva off of his chin. "People like you never cease to amaze me."

Poole glared at him with narrowed eyes. "And people like you uneducated plebs never cease to frighten me. Can't you see what this country is coming to? Wrack and ruin! Between the foreigners and stupid natives like you - "

"You keep your UKIP nonsense to yourself, thanks."

" - Fools like Holmes aren't helping. He thinks he has fingers in every single pie - "

"Oh, I know he does," answered John, flashing back to Sherlock's comment when they had first met '"My brother _is_ the British Government"'.

" - but he doesn't. I know things he can't even begin to dream of - you know Holmes?" Poole asked peevishly, his voice suddenly tinged with just a hint of fear.

"Intimately."

Poole pulled back in astonishment, knocking his head against the white baseboard. John decided enough was enough and stood up, ignoring Poole's anguished hullabaloo as the blood rushed back into his hands. Aiming the gun and looking down at the man, his expensive suit missing the buttons on the jacket, one white shirt-cuff stained with blood, the darkening bruises on his cheek and chin where John had hit him - no matter which way he turned it, he didn't think Mycroft was going to give a shit about Poole. 

And if he did, too bad.

John was already turning towards Anthea before Poole had slumped the rest of the way to the floor. Mir had been smart, had pushed himself away to lean against Poole's desk. He was shaking and sweating, lips pressed tightly together while pointedly not looking John. Smart lad. Far too late, of course. Mir was Mycroft's problem now, just as John had to take care of Anthea. 

He crouched down in front of her, not too close, not too far. "Anthea, it's me, John. Can I come over and take care of you?" Words he regretted as soon as they left his mouth. Given what he had just done, and what she had just been through - fucking _hell_. "Sorry, can I try that again? You know I'm a doctor, I simply want to make sure you're alright."

Because he'd seen the look in her eyes more than once, during his rotation through A&E, in Afghanistan, in the clubs in Colchester. That wounded soul that couldn't quite figure out why what had happened, happened. The plea for someone to make it all different, to have made it not happen, to take it away. 

She was beginning to fade, her eyelids drooping before she jerked back into terrified wakefulness. He'd been there, if not exactly the for the same reasons. "Can I help you, love?"

A full, body-length shudder went through her when he very carefully reached out, so he pulled back. The one thing he wanted to avoid was making things worse, yet he could not see a way through without doing exactly that. There was a sound at the door and when he looked up, real Security was entering the room, thank god. Mycroft followed, ubiquitous umbrella tapping silently on the carpet, looking a god surveying his realm.

Mycroft glanced briefly around the room before approaching Anthea. He looked down at her, nostrils flaring, before reaching out. "Anthea," he said very quietly. 

She gave a great, hitching breath, staring back at him. After a long moment, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her up. 

John watched them look at one another, watched unspoken communication flow between them, saw Anthea's shoulders relax ever so slightly. He was, quite frankly, surprised she suffered Mycroft's touch. Must be the Holmes Effect, he thought with dark amusement. He slowly stood up, his knees protesting with pops and clicks. All he wanted to do was get the hell home. He let Mycroft and Anthea go first.

Mir was being rather firmly manhandled into the hallway by Security as Mycroft and Anthea slowly walked towards the door. Mycroft leaned at John slightly and quietly said, his diction the most precise John had ever heard, "You have a little something on your shirt."

John glanced down - ah. He grabbed a pen from Poole's desk and used the tip to flick away the few bits of jelly-like, milky-tan brain matter onto the floor. Hmm, nice pen - not nice enough to keep, however. He tossed it back on the desk and followed everyone else.

Forever later he was back at Baker Street, freshly showered, newly be-robed, happily imbibing a fragrant cup of tea while reading the paper. _God_ yes, this was the life. He was so engrossed in the paper that he didn't even notice Sherlock until the man slammed the door shut. John jumped, nearly spilling the dregs of his second cup of tea. " _Jesus!_ What?"

"John!" Sherlock did the scarf thing, whipping it off his neck and around the coat hook with cool aplomb. The coat followed, and then Sherlock bounded to John's chair, dropping one hot, heavy hand onto his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

John looked up quizzically. "Yeah?"

Sherlock's mouth moved soundlessly for a second. "Are you sure?"

"Why? What have you done? Was the jam supposed to smell like that?"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock snarled.

"Seriously, how on Earth?" said John, crumpling the paper in his lap.

Sherlock waved one hand imperiously and collapsed onto the couch. "Obvious."

"Anthea will be fine," Eventually.

"You did it for her."

"I would do it for Mycroft, too, you git."

Sherlock swung his feet onto the floor and sat up. "You're fine."

John nodded. He would settle. Faster if Sherlock played his violin for the next few nights. "I did say so."

"Well," Sherlock sniffed. "Get dressed. Let's go out for dinner."

"Not really in the mood, to be honest."

"Shall I make you something here?"

John stared at his flat mate, who stared back with aplomb. "This, I have got to see."

The corner of Sherlock's lips curled up as he stood up. He unbuttoned his jacket, removed it and laid it to one side, unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled them up. 

Fucking hell. Right, then. John licked his lips and asked, "So what are we having?"

"Oh, I'll figure something out."

"Right," John repeated aloud. "Right."


End file.
